


Just A Little More

by MalevolentEmerald99



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Depression, Drug Use, Gay, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Original Character(s), Pain, Prostitution, References to Depression, Sad, Smoking, Triggers, m/m - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-14 20:44:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11791110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalevolentEmerald99/pseuds/MalevolentEmerald99
Summary: Just a little more. And that's all it takes





	Just A Little More

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, guys/readers! This post is actually all academic so in short, it's for a project but feel free to read and leave kudos and all that. And this is my first time posting here so lol *dies*  
> Thanks  
> XOXO

Just A Little More…

“Just-…”

Another shot was taken, the iced beverage sending an entirely antonymous effect of warmth that runs down the throat; the vodka’s taking its toll on the young boy. His head spinning with the alcohol’s kick, his mind getting hazy by the second.

“-a little-”

The smoke puffed out of his mouth was a sight to see; the white cloud leaving his pretty lips and disappearing immediately into thin air, but that trail of whiteness has its own device to play in his mind and body; sending him to cloud nine and bliss, a nirvana of peace and happiness that he loved so much whenever he feels down and blue in his cruel world… Just a few huffs and puffs and soon he’ll be flying off to heaven. His eyes quite red from the high and his sense of humor heightened, laughing and clapping like an amused monkey in a zoo.

“-more.”

Pain… painful… that’s the first thing the boy will feel, pain. The sting of the needle from the syringe inserted deeply in his veins and making him cry every time can never be forgotten, matched by the brownish liquid and the small trickle of crimson blood. After the cursing, the hissing, the crying of hot tears that taints his already flushed cheeks, the sudden urge to vomit and claw his throat open, the pain… comes the numb feeling of an overdosed state, the drug rushing in his system, making the boy smile and just go back to reality, but with a little help from his dearest friend: heroin. And so pain and sadness vanish, his senses, gone too and so as his consciousness. But at least he got the pain gone…

 

Drugs, alcohols and some other reliefs can be the means of escape for the boy. Beneath all the darkness of words and the corruption of morale and dignity, these tokens are still his last resort, against all odds, against reality, against himself.  
The boy’s company mostly consists of a bottle of liquor and a packet of cigarette, especially when no mortal kind can share some of their time with him, when there’s no client for the night and all that...  
Cheap vodkas and tequilas are the boy’s favorite, and though the disgusting taste leaves a cringing flavor in his pallet, the boy can still admit that the beverage gives him a boost of warmth and life back in his asset: his body.  
The cigarettes can be discarded though. Those smoke-sticks that he hated so much can sometimes be left behind, with their nicotine-infected smokes and the heavy scent that sticks in you for hours. He hated cigarettes the most technically; the boy has asthma… but that little secret of his is something worth hiding- a good catch requires good effort after all. And that effort means to pull an act that can surely catch attention; with eyeliners, some tight clothes that hugged his figure and some tighter pants to emphasize a prize ripe for the picking, some metallic-like accessories and for a final touch: a bottle of spirits in hand and a cancer-stick up his mouth, blowing smoke high up in the air. Stationed in some random alley, or in the park, or anywhere the police can’t see him, deep in the shadows of night with the moon and stars hovering above his head, watching and observing, witnessing his actions like some herald of God, much to his guilt’s distaste.  
Then comes along the drugs, ranging from legit drugs such as those sleeping pills, vicodin, propofols and morphine to marijuana and even heroin (his favorite). Presumably, the drugs are just his sidekicks against the horrors of the world he’s currently in, fighting off demons, ones that haunt the boy at night and ones that pay him in exchange of his pleasurable company.  
The sleeping pills are the easiest for him to get, buying from local generic pharmacies, so as the morphine (sometimes). The vicodin and the propofol required another step, one that has the boy kneeling between some random nurse’ or even doctor’s legs, there are times when he was bent over a desk or pushed against a table- it doesn’t matter, as long as he gets what he wants in the end of the day.  
Marijuana, weed or pot… is the boy’s least favorite; he has to smoke it! But even so, pot brings the happiness he surely seeks every now and then. The leaves of this illegal herb are nothing more of an alternative bliss to the kid, to kill all the problems in his little problematic head. But the pain, the physical pain, the mental pain, emotional and even spiritual pain needs something else, something strong…  
And so enters the heroin; the boy’s little brown heroine. The injection-drug, an expensive piece of painkiller he usually use to shut out the screams and cries of truth in life, shutting out the reality he solely fears and stepping in the virtual universe he uses as an established heaven, a garden not of Eden but of something else, wrought by the sinful influence of devils and Lucifer himself. It is true the heroin-poison that runs in his blood surely kills him slowly but it still is a lifesaver for him, one that brings back what was lost within him. Heroin can miraculously bring the boy so close to death’s embrace yet it can bring the boy back its life he is surely losing… an odd paradox.  
A darkness that came on and struck down to take the boy’s life in one fell swoop. His joy and gladness gone, his soul robbed of its innocence and his spirit tainted with blackness of night. His heart shrunk from the love it lacked by the twenty-two years it stood against the wild ravages of life, alone, his mind gnawed by the heavy intoxications of the boy’s alternatives and his wings, once so pure and white, now black and ashen, its feathers ruffled and plucked out.

“God, why? -”

“-why me?”

He questioned the heavens. Looking above the night sky with sorrow and hopelessness in his eyes, his breathing ragged and hands curled into fists. The boy dared question the heaven, to question Him, but he knows deep down it is more of a plea for help, not to question but to ask- to ask for an explanation, for a sign, for something. And so the boy looked, waited, and after a few moments of silence there is still nothing the skies have answered, remaining blank and just above him.  
The boy cried, letting himself be consumed by fright, loneliness, sadness, letting his tears fall down his cheeks, again; each drop a sigil of his faith, falling off like dead leaves from the branches of a tree they clung to all summer, only to fall in the coldest of winter night after a hard fight to survive, to live.

“I’m sorry… ”

The boy pray-told in a hushed tone before tightening the belt wrapped around his forearm, his muscles and veins popping out flushed. And his eyes, still running with those hot salty liquid.  
“I’m sorry” he repeated as he took out the familiar tools from his backpack; a metal spoon, a lighter, a bundle of cotton, a bottle with brown pills in it, alcohol and a track of syringe. The boy then did the procedure: heating the spoon up with the lighter, then adding some drops of water on it, mixed by the brown heroin pill, only to be dissolved a few moments after. He quickly popped the alcohol open to sanitize the syringe and his left arm, the skin marred with needle-scars. And getting a small grub of cotton he soaked it down the spoon, the syringe used up to pull the liquid drug from it, and placed against the abused vein, popped up against the skin. Taking a deep breath before the needle went halfway inside, pulling the plunger out a bit and letting a little blood in the tube before pushing the light brown liquid in but a few seconds later it was out again, the pain subsiding quickly and the damn kick of cloud nine surges forth in him along with the urge to throw up, but enough experience had taught the boy not to…  
The dry sobbing stopped, and so as the tears that kept on flowing earlier. Straightening up on the bench where he sat, in the middle of the park alone in the night, the boy slowly plucks the syringe out with a hiss, putting the cap back on and throwing everything back from whence they came.

“Just a little more- ”

And that’s all it takes.


End file.
